though the stars walk backward
by black-ostias
Summary: it's a really funny thing, see, that as smart as rick grimes is, he has no idea what he's doing to daryl. rick/daryl


**another repost! this piece is old, _super_ old. forged in the fires of season 2, actually, and after i zipped through all the existing comics. so some details about the prison's communal showers were drawn from there, and the boys' characterizations are a little off, i think. sheesh. oh well. i just dusted it off and added more details and sent it on its way. into daryl's fuckin scary psyche we go. hope i didn't bash it up too much.**

**e.e. cummings provided the title. TWD belongs to AMC and kirkman and all that jazz.**

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i am like a goldsmith hammering night and day just so i can extend my pain into a gold ornament thin as a cicada's wing. – xi murong

You get the worst of the run-in with the walkers in the abandoned apartment, mostly when you skid on some guts like a damn fool and your head bounces as it meets the nearby wall, and you feel like there's a stiletto embedded in the back of your neck but you insist on driving once you make it out. Your vision's going hazy at the edges, your world framed in soft, muted light and you need something fixed and sure, the asphalt running on repeat under your tires.

Michonne clenches her fists in your vest, and you grow more lucid as she yells over and over _if you get us both killed I better come back first so I can properly chew out your stupid ass!_, but that's just her being worried, as always. You swipe at your lower lip with your tongue and come away with blood from a cut you don't remember getting.

The prison looms into view and that puts one last burst of manic energy through you, and you nearly crash your bike skidding through the gates, distracted by the sea of grass green as a parrot. Michonne vaults off the back and kills the engine for you, slings your arm over her shoulder and drags you inside. The sight of her dark fingers against your bicep enthralls you, the sheer contrast, and she shakes you a bit. "Don't you pass out on me now," she orders you, sweat gleaming on her upper lip and her collarbones, and you smirk through the furiously throbbing pain.

That new doc, the Indian with the last name you can't pronounce, declares you've got a mild concussion after poking and prodding you and being annoying. Of course you know that, you didn't need to go to some college to know that, not after having your fair share of said injuries; you can't just but that kind of experience either. You don't stop glaring at him, not as he makes you down stale painkillers, not as he confines you to the bed for the next couple days at least. He only grins at you wryly.

"Try and go hunting for that Governor person again and I'll ask Rick to insist that you borrow his handcuffs."

A shivery bolt of heat goes through you at the dubiousness of that statement, but you snort in barely-hid amusement anyway. The man did say you're concussed, your poor sense of humor can be blamed on that.

Michonne reappears at your cell, wearing fresh clothes and a grim smile. "I'm heading back out tomorrow."

"Hold up –"

"I'm not taking your dumb bike, if that's what you're worried about. Flame needs the exercise."

You blink owlishly. "But you never go without me, that's the deal."

She shakes her head once, a firm schoolteacher no that you've been at the receiving end of plenty of times before. "This time I will. If I do find him, I'll bring you back a souvenir. I know you're into that shit."

Knowing the battle's already been won, you sag back against your pillow. "Get his right hand for me."

Michonne lets out a bark of laughter and nods, leaves as quietly as she came.

You roll onto your right side, your left temple aching at a steady, tolerable pace. Daydream fitfully of steaming water and tile against your back, a mouth attaching to the hollow of your throat and you don't really know who it is. It could be Glenn in the CDC bathroom again, Glenn at the edges of the Atlanta camp, with the clever eyes and hands desperate enough to touch anything until Maggie came into the picture. Glenn who knew you'd only be mad because you no longer had anyone to get you off, who'd figured out that it wasn't him you wanted to fuck long before you yourself realized it.

Your insides feel wrenched out of place and you don't want to keep wandering down this road but your weakened mind betrays you.

It's a really funny thing, see, that as smart as Rick Grimes is, he has no idea what he's doing to you.

It first started three months ago, when you crowded against a tree together to not risk setting off whatever animal was making such a racket, and his heartbeat was going wildly fast against where it was pressed into your shoulder, wide and wanting eyes flickering to your mouth. You didn't bother with words, just hauled him into a fierce kiss and whispered "_later_."

You found the sow that day, heavy with her litter and injured but not bit, and when Carl tried to name her Violet, you automatically sought out Rick's reaction only to find he was already staring at you too, a hard white grin on his face that you felt like a right hook.

You're startled from your musings by Carol coming in with some water and soup. "Ain't there nothin more appetizin?" you sigh, pushing up on an elbow and feeling your brain slosh around your skull for a moment.

She helps you to a sitting position and clucks sternly when you don't sip at the spoon she's holding before your mouth. "You're too old to be babysat, you," she says, laughing when you concede and slurp at your meal, loud as you please.

Carol has and always will be a kindred spirit, no matter what the Woodbury folks think. You couldn't ever do it right with a woman, and you're grateful for this thing you have going that relieves your tensions, that's all.

This is what you tell yourself, what you have to keep telling yourself.

He comes by much later, with Judith in tow and you smile helplessly when she tries to grab at your hand and gnaw your fingers again. You look for the blue of Rick's eyes in the air but it's too dark for that now. You're still half-asleep, thinking your dream's taken a vivid turn.

"Glad to know it's only Michonne I have to worry about now." He shifts Judith to his other arm as he stands, and your brain-mouth filter seems to be momentarily decimated because you grumble, "I'm the one with the head injury and you're worrying bout her?"

That makes him pause, and maybe he's smiling or frowning, you can't tell. Only his ear, the curve of his cheekbone and the rough on his jaw are visible in the dying light. "Better that you're here so I can keep an eye on you," and there's something weighing down his words, your sternum feeling oddly crushed by them. Rick's heart is a magnet and yours is lead. But just because he's convenient does not necessarily mean he's a good idea.

When you can finally stand and walk about without feeling weak and disoriented as a kitten, it's three days later and you've read through all the books Beth's lent you, bored into recovery. Carol sees you making your way to the mess hall well past noon and immediately turns you around. "Don't come back here until you've stopped stinking to high heaven!" she calls out, and you want to claw away the burning mortification you feel at everyone's laughs, no matter how good-natured they are.

You go to the showers and not for the first time you wish you had hot water, something to scour away your weariness and the rest of the headache and the scars on your skin and the ache behind your ribcage. You sit on one of the benches and you've only got your shirt off when you hear the familiar stride of boots make their way to you. You don't react to the entrance of the showers creaking shut, stiffen a bit when Rick's fingertips trail down your neck to the small of your back. "You good?" he asks, soft but the empty hall amplifies his voice.

"Yeah," you say, hoping you're convincing him as much as you try to do yourself.

He slides behind you onto the bench, the buttons of his shirt denting your skin, his belt buckle cold on the base of your spine. His lips tentatively find your neck, followed by teeth and tongue.

You lean back against him, let him take your weight. Blindly feel his shirt, his throat, the stubble-turned-beard on his jaw. You rest your head on his shoulder, turn his face towards yours. His eyes like stained glass windows at sunrise this close, and the sweet curve of his plush mouth near-unbearable.

_fuckin can't stand your face_. Only when he grins at you do you realize you said that aloud. "Same can be said for you, man." And before you can make a wry comeback at that he seals your mouth with his, and that's effective enough.

It's slow, a bullet through the ocean, and lasts long enough that the taste of this lunch's corn beef fades and it's just him. You weave your fingers in his hair, gently tugging and making him groan low. Rough palms encircle your hips in retaliation, then creep down, and down. And suddenly things aren't slow anymore.

You break the kiss with a shuddery gasp, grit your teeth to try and keep any more noise in check. You roll your hips against his, making him tighten his grip and swear more than you've ever heard him swear before. The hand not occupied with driving you insane travels your bellybutton, your ribs, your nipples (and the sound you make at that is something you'll never admit to even at knifepoint), before coming to rest just over your heart. "Daryl," he murmurs right in your ear. "Daryldaryldaryl." Like you're a prayer, a dream, a miracle. Like you're actually worth something.

And you kiss him hard enough that the gash on your lip reopens, copper taste coloring your mind. Anything to stop him from saying things you know you'll both regret anyway.

When the need for air becomes unbearable you just keep your foreheads butted together, panting into each other's mouths like the drowning men you are, still moving helplessly, fit together so tight and you're gone far enough that you can't tell where he ends and you begin. One and the same person.

"C'mon, c'mon," you rasp, grinding harder against him, watching his eyes flutter shut and his movements grow sloppier, more desperate, his mouth cocking open.

Just as he comes, his eyes snap wide open again, focusing on you – not looking through an orgasm-induced haze, but actually _seeing_ you, and it stuns you, the raw need in his gaze, the fierce affection and the lov –

Ever as you finish all over his hand, you feel something like terror, something like fear and shock, all the things you never thought you'd feel again.

Goddamn it, something like hope.

For a while you're just resting on each other, trying to find a way to breathe. He's still got a hand on your dick, which should feel strange and uncomfortable, but doesn't. And that's just frightening you even more.

At length he pulls away with a dented sound, the furnace of his body and his chin digging into your shoulder disappearing, leaving you suddenly bereft.

"Ugh, what a mess," he mumbles, swinging one leg over to sit up properly, and you can hear him trying to tuck himself in neatly, like he hasn't just come in his pants from humping your ass. A bit sluggishly you button up too (and won't this be a treat, walking around itching until you can sneak away to wash your clothes yourself), and get to your feet.

His hair's a wreck, his mouth obviously abused, and if it weren't for your inner turmoil you'd be turned on again. He's frowning down at his ruined jeans like his utter concentration will make the splotched stains disappear. You think distantly that there are lines on his face that weren't there a year ago, but it's not registering. None of this is registering, you moving to stand in between his legs, fixing your gaze irresolutely on the silt-gray wall behind him, his head tilting up at you questioningly.

"Daryl?" he prompts you after a brief awkward pause.

You can't seem to speak past the monster tearing its way through your chest, up your throat, but you somehow do.

"M'tired, Rick," you finally say, forcing yourself to look at him straight.

He looks concerned, a bit surprised, and…scared. "Tired of what?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling hollow. "Of pretending I don't –" Your throat constricts but you fight through it. "I don't. Need you."

There's complete silence then, one that threatens to swallow you whole. You shake your head to yourself and start to walk away from the most awesome turndown ever, but then his hand is on your forearm. He's pulling himself to stand up too, and though there's no obvious height difference between the two of you, you still feel so small.

"Hey," he sighs, warm breath tickling your face, still too close, and you flinch, shrink away even more. "Daryl, look at me, open your eyes."

Like a petulant child you do so, trailing your gaze up buttons and stripes of dull and ugly plaid before settling on the hollow of his throat.

He huffs again, cups your jaw and tilts your chin up. "Hey," he repeats, softly, and the look in his eyes when you finally meet them opens the floodgates in your chest, leaves you gasping because how are you supposed to recover from this. "I'm tired too."

When you kiss this time, it's gentle, everything moist and soft and near-maddening, towing you back from the nightmare terrors of your mind. "Jesus," you breathe out, laughing a bit as you clench your hands in his shirt to reassure yourself. "Just that easy, huh."

He smiles wide again, and would you look at that, who'd have thought you'd be the reason for the light in those eyes, who'd ever have thought.

"Everythin' else round us is hard enough as it is. This, this never should be." His hands have found your hips and he's stroking the jutting iliac crests in butterfly-light motions in what's probably supposed to be a reassuring manner, but all it's doing is turn you on. He seems to sense this, though, and an actual smirk forms on his lips until he sheds decades and looks temptingly younger. It kinda takes your breath away. "Somethin' else hard, Daryl?"

"Never knew you was capable of crackin' dirty jokes, officer," you throw back just as easily, but you've already taken hold of his shoulders, and are now slowly walking him backwards until he hits an adjacent wall with a thump. The look on his face when you sink to your knees deserves to be carved in stone, and you take the time to marvel a bit, feeling impossible and maybe the tiniest bit goddamn terrified.

The only time you ever sucked him off before this, you'd smuggled a bottle of vodka back to the prison with you and managed to get him all soft and compliant in the watchtower with just a few gulps of that hard-hitting rollercoaster. He was out of it enough that he wouldn't ask where you learned how to do that, how to run your hands up the insides of someone's thighs, pull off after a while long enough to get them moaning and writhing beneath you.

But now, even sober, he's not asking you anything. Just looking down at you with that same unadulterated awe in his eyes, yes, but there's silent comfort and gentleness and everything you'd been deprived of all your life. He cups your face, his thumbs sweeping over your cheekbones, then plants his hands in your hair.

You rest your face against his hip and just breathe. Remember everything. Know that you are loved.


End file.
